


Inconvenient

by The_Cool_Aunt



Series: DISPATCH BOX [18]
Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Arthur Conan Doyle Canon References, Canon Compliant, Divorce, Drunk John, F/M, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Victorian Attitudes, Victorian Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-13
Updated: 2016-06-13
Packaged: 2018-07-14 17:38:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7183649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Cool_Aunt/pseuds/The_Cool_Aunt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Enough of this, Sherlock. I know that you know better. I am married.” “Yes, John, I am aware,” he hissed back. “I was one of your witnesses. In fact, I do not believe that I am the person in this room who has forgotten that.”</p>
<p>Among the papers in the hidden compartment of Doctor Watson’s dispatch box, there are occasionally other documents. Most are newspaper clippings, but there are a few photos, a few what appear to be legal documents, some telegrams, and a handful of documents written by a hand other than the doctor’s, the detective’s, or the landlady’s. It is one of those documents—a letter—that apparently was the impetus for a memorable evening and a dark time for both the doctor and the detective.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inconvenient

I have alluded to it without addressing it far too often. I have deliberately avoided it. But now it is time for me to describe the night that I came to the realisation that I was truly not meant to be any woman’s husband.  
  
My wife Mary and I had been together for approximately six months. I had, of course, moved out of Baker Street. We had a small house not actually that far away, and the front half of the ground floor rooms had been turned into my small practice—just a waiting room, which doubled as a library, and my consulting room.  
  
We had a maid of all work, of course. She did the heavy work—cooking and cleaning—but as my wife actually had a keen interest in sewing and also enjoyed doing the marketing (and the laundry was sent out), she was not burdened with those responsibilities. We led quiet, modest lives, were naturally tidy, and with no children we felt that she was not overly burdened.  
  
In fact, Mary, who had no lady’s maid, apparently considered her somewhat of a companion. She did not have many friends, and sometimes I would discover them playing cards or experimenting with some faddish new hairstyle copied from the ladies’ magazines spread across Mary’s bed. I was pleased with this; Mary had a diversion and some company whilst I worked.  
  
The maid did not wonder that Mrs. Watson and I did not share a bed or bedroom. It was so in the finer homes, she had once commented, and neither my wife nor I had bothered to tell her that she was being inappropriate.  
  
We did not have a large circle of acquaintances. Invitations to supper, or an evening of music, did occasionally arrive, and we would dress ourselves and attend the event and the day after would discuss it over breakfast.  
  
My medical practice was not what I would consider thriving. My empty waiting room and bank account confirmed this apprehension.  
  
So, no work. No friends. No children.  
  
No Sherlock. No puzzles. No mad dashes over the moors or through the streets or along the Thames. I began to understand what drove Sherlock slightly mad between cases.  
  
I decided to join a club.  
  
Most of them—well, many of them—would never have accepted me as a member. My lack of title, my army career, and my current position as a doctor assured that. However, a neighbouring doctor with whom I had made an acquaintance—we sometimes took a patient for one another—belonged to a newer one. It had been established by professionals such as ourselves, and there I was readily accepted.  
  
I admit that I immediately felt more at home there than I did in my own sitting room. Surrounded by ribbons and needles and colourful thread as Mary did whatever it was she did to her old hats—re-trimmed them or some such—although I did not recognise it in myself then, or perhaps simply did not care to acknowledge it—I was uncomfortable. I had up until that time in my life enjoyed the company of women only in social settings. Other than my mother, of course, I did not ever domicile with anyone even remotely feminine. We never had Grandmamma (my mother’s mother; my father’s mother died long before I was born), nor my aunts from either side of the family, nor cousins, stay with us for any length of time. I had only my brother Harry; no sisters. My mother had friends, of course, but she would go out to visit them—my father did not like the noise and fuss. Everyone with whom I attended school, and of course in the army, was male.  
  
And then I took rooms with Sherlock… well  
  
My primary (only) contact with the fairer sex was, to be honest, at social events, and at those there is no doubt that I enjoyed their company. I enjoyed flirting, and courting, and charming them, and being charmed in return. The extent of my experience was a few dances; a few plays. I had a well-chaperoned walk during a picnic and a rare game of cards on which to base any anticipation regarding a domestic arrangement.  
  
In short, I had no idea what living with a woman was like, and unfortunately for both me and my wife, I discovered very shortly after our marriage (on our wedding night, to be precise) that I did not enjoy it one bit.  
  
(I will explain, as an aside, that our brave and calm landlady, Mrs. Hudson, firstly did not actually share living quarters with us, having her own snug rooms downstairs, and secondly that she took such a motherly role with us that some nights in Baker Street I dreamt that I was back in the cottage of my youth and that when I rose I would be greeted with an affectionate reproach to comb my hair properly before breakfasting.)  
  
(Actually, that last part does occur on occasion—more often it is Sherlock receiving the admonishment, but I am not entirely safe.)  
  
There just seemed to be so much _fussing_ —about curtains and ill-mended nightshirts and dishes and menus and hats and gloves and I know not what else because most of the time I tried as much as I could to avoid the discussions—or to ignore them. I did not _care_ if the new cushions for the window seat were more burgundy and less maroon than desired. I did not care if one of the dinner plates had gotten chipped or that the neighbour had put in—whatever sort of flowers it was. It all seemed ridiculous to me. The cushions would have faded in time anyway, I tried to reason. China gets chipped and we had so many dishes and so little company could not that plate simply be put at the bottom of the stack? I thought that the flowers that grew wild in the meadows were just as attractive—perhaps more so—than the whatever-it-was that the neighbour had put in.  
  
Apparently my lack of solicitude over Mrs. Potter always getting the better sausages delivered to her rather than to us was taken rather badly, and that led to my second cause for discomfort.  
  
There was crying. There was constant crying. This was not the quiet anguish of a soldier who, having regained consciousness after a battle, learns that he will never walk again. This was not the sobbing of an infant taken from her dead mother’s breast where they lay in some filthy alley. This was not the weeping of a parent who has lost a child. This was crying for the sake of crying, and it infuriated me.  
  
Honestly, who wishes for a wife who wails and sniffs and coughs and goes about with red eyes over—sausages?  
  
I suppose it would not have disturbed me as much as it did if I did not realise that it was, for the most part, play acting. The problem was that I had experienced Mary’s genuine tears, more than once, and those were very different. Those did not irritate me.  
  
They shamed me.  
  
*  
  
I mean to be honest if only to berate myself for being such an ignorant, thoughtless man. Mary did nothing— _nothing_ —to deserve my ire; my disappointment. Indeed, in many ways she would be (and possibly is) considered the ideal wife. She was pleasant and attentive. She kept a lovely home. She treated our servant well. She was highly thought of by the neighbours as generous, kind, and charitable, and she truly was.  
  
She brought jellies and delicate broths to the sick. She assisted in gathering clothing for the poor. She read to the inmates of the women’s prison from the Bible, for one hour every week.  
  
She was above reproach.  
  
Perhaps this is what bothered me about it: she was _visibly_ above reproach. Other ladies would remark to me how good my wife was; how generous with her time and attention, particularly with the (and they would always lower their voices when they used the word) _downtrodden._ Every time I heard this word, I wanted to either laugh or to grind my teeth—for by “downtrodden” there is only one sort of woman those respectable ladies meant.  
  
I wonder, even now, what would have occurred if I had responded to one of these well-meaning but small-minded ladies that unbeknownst to them, I also assisted the “downtrodden”—sometimes posthumously, in my guise as Sherlock’s assistant, and sometimes—well, my interactions with these women were _decidedly_ more lively.  
  
Yes, I was, as I have admitted to in my other private writing, enjoying the coarse but somehow satisfying attentions of those same “downtrodden”—gin-soaked, disease-ridden, gap-mouthed, filthy things who nearly wept in gratitude when I gave them twice the silver they expected for the few minutes of attention they gave.  
  
I strongly suspect that had my secret been revealed, the decent ladies all up and down our street would have simply fainted away.  
  
*  
  
In the beginning, I went to the club one or two evenings a week—when I was not off with Sherlock. The remaining evenings I dutifully sat with Mary, reading my newspaper and fitfully discussing the idea of re-papering the bedrooms. Sometimes I would go over our accounts, deciding which merchants were likely to give us longer credit and which would begin to refuse services if they were not paid at least in part. When I partook of that particular activity, Mary would shake her head and look sorrowful at her inability to manage figures—which made it convenient for her to ignore my rather sharp comments about the cost of new cushions, curtains, and wallpaper.  
  
“You will just have to see more patients,” she remarked brightly one night.  
  
“I cannot conjure more patients from thin air,” I snapped back. “What do you wish me to do—go out and stab someone so I can charge him to stitch him back up?”  
  
That comment was not taken at all well, and Mary retired early that evening—in tears, of course. Breakfast the next day was a chilly affair, and the following evening I decided that a few hours of cigars and brandy were preferable to a continuation of our conversation.  
  
I admit it—I did not simply allow this pattern to develop. I was the chief perpetrator. I could not bear the thought of sitting across from my own wife in our own home and listening to her—about anything. And so I began to fill my evenings with more visits to my club, clandestine trips to Whitechapel, and the brilliant, lovely times I spent with Sherlock.  
  
*  
  
I cannot say precisely when these excursions began to encompass the whole of my nights, but I am sure that Mary—and the maid—can. More frequent; staying out later—it had become so that the times I spent with my wife were far and few between. I even began to avoid meals with her—finding an excuse to attend to a patient early in the morning; to stop by at my tailor’s instead of having lunch. I would have tea at a hotel; supper at the club—or grab something as Sherlock pulled me eagerly out the door with a shout to Mrs. Hudson that “the game is afoot!”  
  
*  
  
And so it came to that week when I did not return home at all. I had clean shirts at the club. I had my chequebook and my favourite pipe. I had no desire to examine the bills that came by every post. I did not even consider seeing patients. I presumed that my neighbour was attending to them. I had no reason—and certainly no desire whatsoever—to return.  
  
*  
  
I started out at Baker Street. While always extremely pleased to see me, Sherlock had not had anything on the hopper, and was instead engrossed in the study of some sort of biting or stinging insects—I do not recall. Because of this, I suggested that I leave him alone—and he had waved his farewell languidly to me without looking up from his microscope when I left.  
  
I went directly to my club.  
  
I have only a dim recollection of the following two days. I am ashamed of myself. I believe there were times when I was boisterous and playful. I know that I lost a great deal of money on cards. I sometimes became belligerent and eager to fight—I am fortunate that no one else present at those times was so inclined. I had a room, there, of course, but seemed disinclined to use it, instead falling asleep in an easy chair in front of the fire.  
  
I drank so very much, and to this day I do not understand why someone did not simply turn me out.  
  
*  
  
It was after supper. I had had little to eat—just a chop and some boiled potatoes—but was well up on brandy. I was overheated and sleepy (which many of my fellow club members probably took as a blessing) and they let me dose off in a chair.  
  
I was startled by the tight grip of fingers on my shoulder. I was being shaken awake. I opened my eyes and attempted to focus on the fellow standing before me. It was Sherlock.  
  
“Sh… Holmes?” I managed.  
  
“Watson,” he responded gravely, looking down at me keenly.  
  
“What are you doing here?”  
  
“I was sent for. I’ve come to take you home.”  
  
“I have no wish to go home. Go away.”  
  
“No.”  
  
*  
  
I do not recall with clarity the hansom ride. Sherlock assures me that that is because I slept most of the way. He somehow got me out of it and upstairs… I was confused. I looked around me in bewilderment. “This is Baker Street,” I remarked stupidly.  
  
“Excellent observation. Sit down, John.” He was not at all sharp with me, nor sarcastic. In fact, if today I were to consider a word for his behaviour that evening, I would say without hesitation that he was a perfect gentleman, even as he assisted me in removing my hat and coat and guided me to the sofa.  
  
If I was to describe his expression and his tone, though, I would be amiss to not use the word _sorrowful._  
  
*  
  
“Are you feeling quite well?” my companion asked rather urgently. “Perhaps some fresh air?” He took three long strides to the window and threw it open. The cool night air did feel pleasant upon my face, which I knew was flushed and damp. “And some water?” He poured a glass for me from the carafe on the sideboard. I took it gratefully. I was, I admit, feeling rather unwell at that point. “You will let me know if you are… that is…”  
  
“No, I am better now. Thank you.”  
  
*  
  
“You are my best friend.”  
  
“So you have said—three times. Arms up.”  
  
I allowed him to wrestle me into a nightshirt.  
  
“I care very deeply for you,” I told him sincerely.  
  
“Mmm.” He looked at me keenly with those strange, grey eyes. “You need to use this.” I am still somewhat flabbergasted that he, as calmly as if he were handing me an umbrella on a rainy day, retrieved and… I can barely write it even for my eyes only… quite literally assisted me in using the pot. It goes to show how far gone I was that at the time, I did not even consider it odd or embarrassing at all. It was quite the opposite, in fact. His actions—his touches—felt gentle and warm and loving.  
  
“Thank you,” I mumbled.  
  
“Are you more comfortable now?” He rearranged my nightshirt.  
  
“I think that you are the most beautiful man I have ever seen.”  
  
“You are very handsome yourself. Get into bed.”  
  
The sheets felt heavenly and smelled of lavender. My sheets at home never smelled of lavender. My head felt quite heavy and I gratefully sank back onto the pillows.  
  
“Will you be all right?” His voice continued to soothe and comfort me as much as his hands. I realised that he had seated himself next to me on the bed. I felt his long, thin fingers on my temple. “Please go to sleep, John. I will remain with you until you are asleep.”  
  
I slept.  
  
*  
  
“How did… when did I get here?” I was still not myself and quite confused. I pulled on the dressing gown that had been left in my room and stumbled out into the familiar, homely sitting room.  
  
“I brought you here last evening,” Sherlock replied calmly, tamping down the tobacco of his first pipe of the day. “How are you feeling?”  
  
“I have a bit of a headache.” I was understating my condition. I am surprised that he did not remark on the chasm that had opened up in my skull, allowing horrid little imps with tiny blacksmith hammers access to my brandy-soaked brain.  
  
“Come sit with me and have breakfast. As you have told me more than once, it will help to eat.”  
  
He was correct—I was pleased that my advice had been taken and appreciated.  
  
I had a moment’s consternation when Mrs. Hudson brought in the tray, but she didn’t seem surprised or disturbed about my presence.  
  
“It is always a pleasure to see you, Doctor,” she said sincerely, smiling at me. “Mr. Holmes said you had been out quite late helping him with an investigation.”  
  
“Ah. Yes. Quite late.”  
  
Upon immediate reflection, it was surprising that she did not ask after Mary. Upon more reflection, perhaps it is not.  
  
*  
  
“Why did you come for me?”  
  
“I received a letter,” he replied, unusually evasive.  
  
“From whom?” The words were out of my mouth before I realised that I already had the answer. “It was from Mary, wasn’t it?” He nodded. “May I see it?”  
  
He hesitated and I put my hand out impatiently. Sighing, he went to his desk and, unlocking a drawer, withdrew several sheets of stationery. I recognised it and the hand at once, of course. I vaguely recalled Mary telling me something about the stationery. To this day, I cannot recall if she was pleased or displeased by it.  
  
[The letter has been preserved with the rest of the papers; the sheets of stationery appear to be of high quality. The handwriting is delicate and elegant. The topmost corner of the top sheet has been torn off, presumably by Doctor Watson, to obscure the date and location of their house.]  
  
Dear Mr. Holmes,  
  
Please excuse my boldness in addressing you. We are not as well-acquainted with one another as one would expect considering the circumstances of our introduction and, of course, the identity of my husband. Also please excuse my familiarity in using his Christian name, as I know you do, and in being direct.  
  
I write to you to request your assistance—not as a consulting detective, but as a decent and good man. I do not believe I exaggerate when I state that you are John’s only close friend, and he yours, and I believe that my dear husband is very much in need of a friend.  
  
I do not claim to have any understanding of the male mind, but I have a sense that he does not settle easily into married life with me. I do realise that domesticity is a novel lifestyle for him. His time in the army and bachelor existence before and after that have, I feel, ill-prepared him. It is not so much that he rejects our hearth and home, but he does not seem to have the capacity to embrace it.  
  
I realise that some of the issue is simply the dramatic changes he has experienced. The horrors of being among the heathens, fighting for our Queen, is as far departed from our home as can be imagined. His decent and quiet medical practice is the antithesis of the circumstances under which he was forced to tend to the grievous injuries of our brave soldiers. I have some knowledge of other men in similar circumstances whose senses have been so inundated with the filth of their foreign experiences that they find being safe at home among decent, church-going people to be perverse and unfathomable. I fear that John is one of those men.  
  
Since our marriage I have done everything I can think of to draw him into a decent, proper life. I have established a warm and hygienic home. I have made the acquaintance of several gracious and interesting neighbours with whom to exchange visits and pleasantries. I keep myself well-informed on matters that I believe will interest him and endeavour to draw him into conversation.  
  
Despite all this, I sense that all is not well. He does not seem to find anything interesting enough about his practice to remark on. Indeed, he does not have much of a practice at all, and this fact does not seem to concern him overmuch. He does not remark on much of anything, in fact—not my choices for our meals or the plays we occasionally attend. He sometimes takes an interest in musical programmes, and I endeavour to arrange for us to attend as many as possible. He absolutely does not respond to anything I wish to discuss pertaining to our domestic arrangements—none of it at all.  
  
In point of fact, Mr. Holmes, John does not seem to take an interest in anything beyond attendance on you and your “cases” and a new fancy of his—his gentlemen’s club.  
  
Please understand that I do not have an objection to his accompanying you on your investigations. Indeed, I encourage it. When he returns from a day or two with you, he seems stimulated and energetic, enthusiastic and ebullient. He takes up his pen and eagerly records the details.  
  
It is his latter pursuit that persuades me to write to you now. When he first joined the club, I was pleased. He spent an evening or two a week there, at most, and he described his activities as what anyone would expect. He enjoyed his brandy and cigars; gentlemen’s games such as billiards. Discussions regarding politics and progress—he seems particularly taken with anything pertaining to the railroad—that are beyond my comprehension and my interest. I saw no harm in it at all.  
  
Lately, however, he has been exhibiting alarming behaviour. Instead of one or two evenings a week, John spends virtually every evening away from our home. Sometimes, yes, he is with you, but I believe I have discovered him in untruthful statements. Some evenings and nights when he does not come home he claims he has been with you when I suspect that he has not. When he does come home, very late, he is more than somewhat the worse for drink. I send him to bed immediately, of course, but often feel the need to look in on him to ascertain that he has actually gotten himself properly into bed. If he has, as he often does, simply fallen asleep in his chair, sometimes (and please excuse my frankness) in a state of undress, I obviously can do nothing for him but avert my eyes and cover him with a blanket.  
  
And now, he does not come home at all. As I write this, he has not been here in our home for three days and two nights. I have had the maid turn away the few patients who have requested his services, and I have deflected the inquiries of the neighbours by saying that he is (and will you please excuse this subterfuge) on a case with you.  
  
Clearly this situation cannot continue.  
  
What I am writing to ask of you is: If it is convenient, as his friend, would you be willing to attend to him as a guest at his club, and to take him home?  
  
Respectfully,  
  
Your friend’s wife,  
  
Mrs. John Watson  
  
*  
  
I am not ashamed to admit that the tears pricked my eyelids as I read this heartfelt plea from my wife. I felt a cad and a rotter. I had treated her appallingly. I had been selfish and rude. I had been unseemly and indecent.  
  
Sherlock had, as I was reading, discretely turned his attention to some correspondence; he sat at his desk diligently writing a letter of his own. I knew he was aware when I was done reading, as I let the leaves fall from my lifeless fingers to the floor, but we remained silent. The only sound was the scratch of his pen and the occasional distinct click of the pen being dipped into the ink.  
  
Finally, he completed his missive. He flipped it over, blotted it with the precision he usually applied to one of his experiments, and prepared it for the post. I appreciate even now the time that he allowed me to simply think my own thoughts.  
  
It was quite a while before I formed my first query.  
  
“Did you reply?”  
  
“Of course, John. I wrote to her directly to say that yes, I would attend to you.”  
  
“Does she know that you came to me last night? To my club, I mean.” I found myself fumbling for clarity. My wording was clumsy.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“And that I am here… not… home.”  
  
“She did not ask for me to bring you home. She requested that I take you home.”  
  
“What?” I admit that my head, even after the good breakfast, was brandy-fuddled.  
  
“She did not request that I bring you home to her. She requested that I take you home, so that is what I have done.”  
  
“Oh, Sherlock…”  
  
*  
  
I was devastated. Speechless. Did he really mean that? What did he mean by that?  
  
“John, please do not be concerned. In my reply to Mrs. Watson, I made it clear that I was going to retrieve you at your club and bring you back here for a few days.”  
  
“Why… why did you do that?”  
  
“Because of what was contained in that letter. I am not a student of human nature, John, but I do know that it took a great deal of courage on her part to write to me. She would not have done so if she was not deeply concerned about your well-being, as was I. From what I observed last evening, her concern was not misplaced.”  
  
I was speechless. I could not even look him in the eyes, staring instead at the floor, and was surprised when he was suddenly standing directly in front of me. I felt his hand on my shoulder.  
  
“Please, John, we do not have to discuss it if it distresses you. Would you like more coffee? I will ring for more, and then I wish to show you some fascinating results of comparing venom…”  
  
His words, mundane and commonplace and reassuring, flowed over me as warmth from a lively hearth embraces and surrounds one on a bitter day. I am not certain what else he said, and I know that to him, it did not matter. Just the sound of his voice calmed me as nothing for the prior month had.  
  
We spent the afternoon in that manner—he shared the fascinating details of his research into stinging insects (it was stinging, after all, not biting—but when I quoted from _Romeo and Juliet_ , he looked at me so blankly and uncomprehendingly that I burst out in laughter). I told him what I had learned about the expansion of the underground railroad, and together we mused over the implications for the mobility of the criminal class. I could not stop smiling whilst savouring Mrs. Hudson’s lovely, perfect scones with honey and clotted cream (had I mentioned that my wife forbade most sweets as being “unhealthful”?). Supper was equally delightful—some mutton and vegetables. I could not help myself from remarking—Sherlock’s appetite was good.  
  
“I enjoy sharing meals with you,” he murmured.  
  
Finally, at about nine o’clock, he gazed at me affectionately. “Shall I play for you?” he asked, giving up on his pipe, which was not drawing properly.  
  
“That would be lovely; yes,” I replied. I held my hand out for his pipe and he obediently handed it to me. Whilst he played I would endeavour to clear it out.  
  
He played for an hour and I admit that I grew misty-eyed with the nostalgia of it—although I tried not to let him see. He had poured a brandy for each of us, and subtly (so subtly I truly did not notice at first) locked the bottle into the tantalus and tucked the key in his pocket. That was fine. For the first time in many, many weeks, I felt perfectly fine with one snifter, my pipe, and the comfort of his second-best dressing gown (I had on a clean shirt of his and my own trousers and waistcoat, but my suit coat “stunk of smoke” according to Mrs. Hudson and she was doing something mysterious to it downstairs).  
  
Finally, he wiped down and returned his violin to its case. I offered him his pipe, which I had managed to get drawing properly again—he really does use the worst tobacco—but he shook his head. “Do you want a cigarette instead?” I asked, rising and drawing one from his case.  
  
“Yes, please,” he murmured, sinking into his chair.  
  
I lit it for him and, taking it from my lips, carefully placed it in his. He suddenly reached up and grasped my wrist. I looked directly into his eyes. “What is it?” I inquired.  
  
“I am afraid we do need to discuss…” he was uncharacteristically laconic.  
  
“Oh.” I realised immediately to what he referred and I sat down heavily.  
  
“Please,” he begged. “I am going to make this as comfortable as I am able. You know I am not always particularly delicate about… well, I can be rather rude.” He smiled a bit shyly at me and I chuckled.  
  
“Yes, I am aware of your almost infamous lack of tact,” I replied. “I do not think that my recent behaviour warrants any such delicate handling. Please—fire away.”  
  
He nodded. He took a deep breath. He began.  
  
“John, I do not wish to cause you any distress. In fact, it is quite the opposite. What I wish to do is to offer you what I believe is a cure for… I know it is not an illness such as you treat… but it is an illness of… what?”  
  
“You are not making a great deal of sense, Sherlock,” I pointed out. “Please just be blunt.”  
  
He closed his eyes briefly, and when he opened them again, they glistened in the gaslight. “John, I do not think that it is cowardly, nor perverse, to admit that, as you stated to me very early on in our acquaintance, you enjoy a ‘Bohemian’ lifestyle. Apparently, so do I, and perhaps it is for that reason that we shared quarters so admirably—and that you and Mrs. Watson do not.”  
  
“Well, that is getting right to it,” I muttered. I knew that I had this coming, but there is “blunt” and then there is “Sherlock.” I admit it—it pained me.  
  
“I do not see any way around it,” he admitted, fiddling with his cigarette.  
  
“All right, then. Keep going,” I sighed. I glanced around for the bottle of brandy. I know that he observed this.  
  
“John, I wish for you to move back into our rooms.”  
  
We stared at each other for a full minute, I believe.  
  
“Are you mad?” I finally sputtered. That was not at all what I was expecting.  
  
“I do not believe so…” His genuine consideration of my sardonic question would have been amusing at another time. At that moment, however, I admit that I was furious with him for suggesting such an asinine thing.  
  
“You must be. You have suggested the impossible.” I said this coldly to cover my rancour—and I can admit now to myself—my heartache at realising that what he wished was not possible—because of course that is what I wanted as well. That is all I had ever wanted since the day I had moved out. “Next you will be suggesting that, like Phileas Fogg, we can circumnavigate the globe in under three months.”  
  
He gazed at me blankly.  
  
“It is a work of Mr. Verne. We have not read it yet.” I realise now that the use of that phrase held so much more meaning that what its simple few words carried on their surface.  
  
“If you were in charge of the Bradshaw’s and the Baedeker’s, all would be well,” he opined.  
  
“We are not discussing a voyage of that length,” I pointed out. “But one is as unlikely as the other.”  
  
“Why?” As petulant as a child, he glared at me. “You are unhappy. I am unhappy.” He paused to finish his cigarette. “Moving back to Baker Street would resolve this.”  
  
“You are forgetting one fairly large component of the issue,” I pointed out.  
  
“What? What am I forgetting?” He rose and threw the remainder of his cigarette forcefully towards the fire.  
  
“Mrs. Watson?” While saying her name, I coughed—something had caught in my throat. I blamed it on the cigarette smoke.  
  
“What about her?”  
  
“Now you are just being deliberately obtuse!” I shouted at him. “Enough of this, Sherlock. I know that you know better. I am _married_.”  
  
“Yes, John, I am _aware_ ,” he hissed back. “I was one of your witnesses. In fact, I do not believe that _I_ am the person in this room who has forgotten that.”  
  
I am ashamed—so very ashamed—about my reaction to this.  
  
I sprang from my chair, and I took the two steps I needed to bring me directly in front of my friend, and my hand made a horrible sound as it came into abrupt and hard contact with his beautiful, delicate cheekbone.  
  
*  
  
He, himself, did not make a sound, even as I gasped at the horror of my own action. He looked at me in some astonishment, then dropped his lovely eyes to the carpet.  
  
“Oh, God, Sherlock. I am so sorry.” My lips could barely form the words; I was shaking so. “Please, please forgive me.”  
  
He slowly raised one slender hand and cradled his cheek.  
  
“Did I… please let me see. God, I am so sorry. Please—please just look at me.” I reached out and, as gently as I could, raised his face up to mine with my hand cupped under his chin.  
  
I will never forget that haunted expression on his face. His queer grey eyes glistened. “It is all right, John,” he whispered, gazing up at me. “I deserved it.”  
  
“What? No. Never! You and I—our conversation was heated, I admit, but I should never have raised a hand to you.”  
  
“Excuse me, John. I wish to retire.” Without another word he turned and strode into his bedroom, and I heard the distinct sound of the door being locked.  
  
Numbly, I banked the fire, and as I moved to turn down the gas, I noticed a glint of something on his abandoned chair. It was the key to the tantalus. I took the bottle of brandy and a glass into my bedroom; I did not need to check to know that the door adjoining our rooms would also be locked.  
  
*  
  
The morning was grey and miserable, which matched my mood. I glumly rang for breakfast, knowing that knocking on Sherlock’s door was pointless. I believe that my expression was enough to dissuade Mrs. Hudson from chatting. She silently placed the tray on the table and, with a sad glance at the shut bedroom door, went back downstairs.  
  
I had no idea what to do. I did not want to leave our rooms. I was still utterly mortified at my action the evening before, and now I was concerned that Sherlock had not made an appearance. I did not even remotely wish to return to my own home—and to my wife. I looked across the untidy sitting room—living alone as he now did, Sherlock was even more likely than he had ever been to scatter the ephemera of his life across every surface. I found that I was becoming more and more anxious about him.  
  
Finally, I could stand it no more. I strode across the room and knocked loudly on his door. “Sherlock, are you all right?” I called through it.  
  
“It is no longer locked,” was his quiet reply.  
  
I instantly burst into his room. He was seated at his dressing table, which was, as usual, covered with pots of colourful theatrical make-up and putty, hairpieces and false whiskers, and a few pairs of eyeglasses. He did keep a few items for his daily toilette there—his brushes and oil to tame his curls, scissors for his nails, and the like—but they were almost lost in the detritus of his tools for disguising himself.  
  
He was dressed in an impeccably crisp, white shirt, black trousers, and a waistcoat of an elegant pewter sort of fabric, but his collar was unbuttoned. He was fidgeting with something in his long, nervous fingers; I could not immediately see what it was. He did not turn to look at me as I entered. Instead, I could see that he was observing me in the looking glass.  
  
“Good morning, John,” he said formally.  
  
The last thing I wanted at that moment was formality between us. “Let me see your face,” I commanded, walking around the bed to where he was seated. As his bedroom was configured, with the dressing table tucked into a far corner, this meant that unless he dived across the bed, he was trapped. I did not put this past him, however, and quickly placed a firm hand on his shoulder. “Please,” I amended, even though I knew that we were far past those niceties.  
  
He turned his beautiful face towards me, and I gasped at the sight of his ethereal features. His cheek and eye were swollen and horribly discoloured; I had impacted directly on the outer edge of his eye socket. I could not have landed my blow with more precision if I had been performing surgery on his delicate features.  
  
“Oh, God, Sherlock. I am so sorry.” He did not respond. “Has your nose been bleeding?”  
  
“A bit.”  
  
“Do you think anything is broken?”  
  
“I am not certain.”  
  
I gingerly pressed my fingers across his cheek; he flinched and shut his eyes. “How is your vision?” I asked, dreading the answer.  
  
“It is not quite right,” he admitted. “And my head aches.”  
  
“I do not believe that any bones are broken,” I determined with relief. “Putting something cold on it should help.”  
  
“No,” he murmured, “but please, will you… my head?”  
  
“Of course.” He wished for me to treat his headache in the manner that I had hit upon as being most efficacious, and it suddenly occurred to me that, since I had moved out, he must surely have been periodically suffering from his dreadful seizures of agony, and I had abandoned him to suffer alone.  
  
I felt positively ill.  
  
Regardless, I fetched the bottle of essence of lavender. It was still in my room—my old room, I reminded myself as I used the adjoining door. “Come sit,” I instructed. I put my hand out for his and he allowed me to assist him to sit on his bed; it occurred to me that the bed was made up. He had not slept. The delicate fragrance and soothing feel of the oil was soon on my fingers and then on my darling’s bruised and battered face. I gently stroked from the centre of his furrowed brow to the temples, being extremely careful not to carelessly touch the bruises.  
  
Did my hand hurt from the impact? I truly do not recall.  
  
“Is it improved?” I finally inquired. His eyes were shut and his features lax. “Do you wish to lie down?” He nodded and I helped him to ease back onto the pillows. “Will you please sleep for a bit?” I begged.  
  
“Yes, John,” he replied, meek as a child. He rolled onto his side, away from me, and I heard him hiss as his bruised cheek met the pillow.  
  
“When you awake I am certain that Mrs. Hudson can bring us something very nice to eat,” I murmured, not wanting to leave him. “What would you like?”  
  
“Cake,” he responded, and if the situation had not been so grave, I would have laughed at his instant and child-like request. I patted his hip. “Very well. I shall go downstairs now and request some lovely cake for you. Will you be all right? I shall return instantly and be just out in the sitting room.”  
  
“Mmph,” he mumbled, leaving me to interpret.  
  
That I chose to interpret his utterance as “Yes, John, please ask for a lemon sponge and come directly back upstairs and be in your chair when I awaken, waiting for me” is my business and mine alone—at least, it was then.  
  
*  
  
I spent the hours tidying the sitting room as quietly as I was able. There were books to be shelved and old newspapers everywhere to be dealt with. (I knew that if a newspaper contained something that he wished to retain for his commonplace books, he neatly folded the section and put it on his desk; the sheets he deemed “boring” were usually discarded in a rather decorative fashion around the room. Those I stacked neatly to use in starting fires and sopping up his soggier experiments.)  
  
His acid-scarred table of chemicals and equipment was, to a degree, in more order. He was meticulous about his chemicals; that was a fact. His slides were neatly arranged, as were his tools. I did tidy the few items that did not seem to belong there—but knew to leave the woman’s slipper alone. It was just one—and it appeared to bear a suspiciously reddish-brown stain on its toe. I recalled our very first conversation—the very first words I had heard him utter, regarding developing a definitive test for human haemoglobin.  
  
He truly was a genius in so many ways, I reflected.  
  
And in so many ways, so very human, I realised as I returned one of his pipes to the rack on the mantel and discovered a glass that must have held milk abandoned there. I shook my head at its malodorous coating, moving it to the sideboard; I would return it to Mrs. Hudson later.  
  
And in so many ways an innocent. I discovered a letter, crumpled and tossed into a corner. Curious, I sat at his desk, smoothed it out, and read it. It sickened me in a way that the sour milk had not. It turned out to be a letter of thanks from a client—one that was far too effusive to be considered proper. It was written by a woman—a Miss Emerson—and she seemed to think it appropriate to express her admiration not just of his skills as a detective but of everything about him. She praised his wisdom; his manners. His costume. His voice. His eyes. It was, in fact, a rather intimate description of him, but what distressed me more than anything was her commenting on his state of bachelorhood. _Surely some lucky woman would soon be Mrs. Holmes,_ she wrote, and it was quite apparent that she considered herself the most likely candidate.  
  
I know now what I did not recognise in myself back then—I was jealous. It was one letter from an over-enthusiastic client and the fact that I had discovered it discarded so carelessly tells me now—as it did not then—all that I need to know.  
  
He is mine.  
  
I threw the letter rather viciously into the fire and watched in satisfaction as it burned.  
  
*  
  
He emerged from his bedroom. He had slept for approximately four hours. I had, of course, looked in on him a few times, and even in repose he had had a troubled expression on his delicate, disfigured features. Finally, I had heard him stirring and rang the bell for the promised cake.  
  
Mrs. Hudson took one look at him and scowled openly. “What have you gotten into now?” she demanded. “I have warned you about being impertinent.”  
  
“Yes, Mrs. Hudson,” he responded apologetically.  
  
Then it occurred to her that, the last time she had seen him, he had not been injured, and as far as she knew he had not gone out, nor had anyone but myself been upstairs. She opened her mouth to say something, took one look at my face, and shut it again, pressing her lips into a firm, grim line.  
  
“I found this,” I burst out, rushing over to hand her the scummy glass I had discovered whilst tidying.  
  
“Thank you,” she said stiffly, accepting it with a grimace. Then she looked directly at me and fiercely whispered, “No more of this. You must get yourselves sorted. Do you hear me?”  
  
I nodded dumbly and watched her head back downstairs before turning and uncovering the tray. In addition to the cake, it held some cold meat and bread. “Come sit with me,” I instructed; Sherlock was looking uneasily around the now-tidy room but he obediently seated himself at the table.  
  
His appetite was not good but he managed to swallow down a bit of the sliced beef and then, more eagerly, two pieces of lemon sponge and some tea.  
  
*  
  
“I want you back here with me, where you belong.”  
  
“That is impossible. You know that,” I replied flatly.  
  
“No, I do not know that. You wish it as well, and if we both desire it, you will find a way to make is happen. I know you will.”  
  
“Sherlock, I do miss living here with you—I truly do, more than I can say, but—”  
  
He interrupted me, and his voice was harsh. “John Watson, you not only do not love your wife, you cannot even abide living in the same house as her. You abhor every bit of what your life has become because of her. You would rather drink yourself into a stupor than go home to her—to face cushions and hats and flowers and neighbours and your dull medical practice and all of those things you told me you despise.”  
  
Had I told him those things? Yes. Yes, I had. I had wondered if that bit was a dream brought on by my excesses at the club, but apparently it was not. It came to me dimly now. After I had drunk down the water he had poured for me, I had stretched out on the sofa, breathing in the cool night air as it flowed through the window he had opened.  
  
“Poor John,” he had murmured, gazing down at me. “I am so sorry. I have been neglecting you and your worries.”  
  
“Not… your worries. Your… my worries are not your worries.” Yes, it took three attempts for me to get this simple thought pronounced. He frowned at this, and even back then I admit that I was taken by how very beautiful he was.  
  
“Why not?” He seemed genuinely baffled.  
  
“Because,” and I took a deep breath and attempted to arrange my thoughts. “you do not have to concern yourself about cushions.”  
  
“Cushions?” He stared at me, then dropped to the floor so we were eye level with one another. “What about cushions? Explain.”  
  
And so yes, I had told Sherlock Holmes about the horrors of serving an inferior sherry, and how chrysanthemums are apparently vulgar, and the cost of six yards of lace, and how dull practicing general medicine was, and how I had liked the musical evenings out but missed his commentary before and after.  
  
I had told him every detail of my boring, horrible life.  
  
I had told him how very, very much I missed him, and it was then that he had guided me into my bedroom and helped me undress and _everything_ that he had done for me as I continued to babble about my feelings—my _affection_ —for him.  
  
And now we were at this juncture. He was both absolutely correct and completely wrong. I could not bear my dull, married life, but I also could not leave it and return to him. I was damned either way.  
  
But I knew what I had to do.  
  
Descending those seventeen steps felt as if I was descending into my own grave. I went home.  
  
*  
  
I found myself utterly unable to say a word to Mary. I let myself in and hung up my hat and sat at the dining table, staring down at its well-polished surface. She finally, after some not-surprising hesitation, joined me.  
  
“Would you like something to eat?” she asked quietly.  
  
I shook my head. Food would choke me.  
  
“Perhaps you should retire early. You look very tired.”  
  
I nodded and dragged myself up and into my solitary bedroom. Removed my coat and waistcoat and braces; my boots. I stretched out on the bed and pulled a pillow out from under the covers. I rolled onto my side and buried my face in it. It did not smell of lavender.  
  
I wept.  
  
*  
  
I got through three weeks. I saw a few patients. I paid some bills. We did not have any visitors but a few evenings we attended events out of the house. Our neighbours remarked on how busy I must have been with Mr. Holmes and that they looked forward to reading my accounts of our adventures. I nodded but did not remark on this or anything else.  
  
I found speaking to be so utterly exhausting as to be nearly impossible. Listening was equally challenging. I found my attention wandering most of the time. I struggled through consultations. Mary had to repeat herself, often. I went to my club, retrieved my belongings, and informed them that I was withdrawing my membership. I apologised for my behaviour and—oddly—the assurance that most men go through rough patches of that sort gave me the only moments of relief I experienced during that time.  
  
I went around to the butcher and expressed my dissatisfaction at the quality of the deliveries.  
  
I nodded at the news that Mary had had the flowers she desired planted—I still had no idea what kind they were.  
  
I ate whatever was placed in front of me, seated at the polished table. The maid and I rarely exchanged words.  
  
In the evenings I sat by the fire and read the newspaper or sometimes a novel and glanced over at whatever it was that Mary was working on—some sort of needlepoint cushion covers.  
  
And every day, I received a letter from Sherlock. I did not read a single one, instead tucking them into a drawer of the desk in my consulting room and locking it. And every day, I wrote a letter to him. I did not post a single one, and they ended up locked in the same drawer, organised by date—his first, then mine, his second, and then mine.  
  
At the end of the three weeks, I received a letter addressed in a hand that I recognised and tore it open in alarm, and I experienced both fury and relief when I saw that the enclosed letter was in the familiar, dear hand of my friend:  
  
My dearest John,  
  
I am certain, now, that you are not reading my letters, so my brother has offered to address this one in the hopes that you would open it. Still, I pen these words not knowing if you will ever read them.  
  
I have not been well since our last conversation. I have not wanted to eat or to work or even to get out of my bed. I suppose I alarmed Mrs. Hudson, for she finally sent for Mycroft, and he came to our rooms and made me rise and bathe and dress and eat something, and then he and I spoke for a very long time until I came to a rather startling conclusion.  
  
I do not just wish for you to come home. You are the _only_ person with whom I wish to spend time—simply to spend time together. You know that I tolerate other people poorly, if at all. But you—I find myself looking forward to speaking with you. I find myself wishing you were here to share—anything. Everything. I know that I am being selfish and horrid, and I am sorry for that, but I cannot seem to help myself. I _need_ you to come home, and I suspect that you need to leave Mary in just the same way. We are living lives of falsehoods, and it is hurting not just you and I but her as well. As you told me, she has done nothing to deserve your ire or your neglect. Releasing her from her obligation to you would be a kindness. It would have to be done with the greatest discretion, of course—I am sure that you can conceive of the best way to proceed.  
  
And then you can come live here again. I miss you so very, very much.  
  
Please come home.  
  
Yours most sincerely,  
  
Sherlock  
  
*  
  
I sent the maid out on an errand and Mary and I finally had a long talk, and the next day she began the process necessary to be divorced from me—she asserting adultery, cruelty, and of course desertion upon my part. She bore it incredibly well; as a matter of fact, she did not seem the least bit surprised, and looking back I realise that she knew long before I did that we were not destined to be husband and wife in any sense of the word.  
  
It was the only day during our short marriage that she did not shed a tear.  
  
Finally, I reported the shocking news that she had, after a brief illness, passed away. Of course what had actually transpired was her relocation to America—to New York—to live under an assumed name.  
  
And I had finally—finally—moved back to Baker Street, where I belonged.  
  
[Although he did not make any remarks in the manuscript, as he always does, Sherlock had added his thoughts at the end: _My dearest John, I believe I understand why you felt the need to pen this, some of your most painful memories. Please know that I have not once regretted a thing, nor was I ever angered by your actions. You were in an untenable situation and I believe that you extricated yourself with as much decency as was possible._  
  
_I love you so very, very much._ ]  
  



End file.
